


It's a different person

by Azorita



Category: Ammonite (2020)
Genre: Drama & Romance, Established Relationship, F/F, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28115955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azorita/pseuds/Azorita
Summary: Mary and Charlotte were given only a few weeks to develop their relationship. Now that they've passed, they need to say goodbye to each other.
Relationships: Marry Anning & Charlotte Murchison, Mary Anning/Charlotte Murchison
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	It's a different person

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Другим человеком](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27994092) by [Azorita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azorita/pseuds/Azorita). 



> That's my first shot at translating my work into English so I'm almost sure some phrases will sound a bit off.   
> It's up to you to decide whether I should try to do it again, huh.

Charlotte’s fingers are grasping at my sleeve. She’s in bed – weak, without her bright smile. She cannot even look up at me. She can only grip blue tartan fabric in her hand.   
I’m sitting on the side of the bed and caressing her hand for so, so, so long. Drawing little circles on her palm. Following the veins under her pale skin with my finger. They look like fossilized plants, these veins. Dendritic, thin, ever so beautiful.   
It’s the drawing of the past.   
***  
We are packing the last of the things, buckling the trunks. Charlotte’s got lots of baggage. We need to make sure she doesn’t leave anything at my cottage. The departure is close.   
***   
It’s so warm at the seaside, so light and so nice that we have no intention to look for fossils. I’m fiddling with the pebbles, not looking down, but it’s nothing but an old habit.   
While Charlotte is watching the waves. And I’m watching her.   
Her face was so pale when she arrived. Her voice was so quiet.   
***   
Charlotte stands up, straightening her dress, and I catch her gaze. There’s something piercing and longing in her eyes and I can’t look back… but it only lasts a moment. She’s gone already so she can look for the last of her things. And I’m left all alone.   
***  
The bright flame of the candle is calm and steady. It’s the middle of the night. I feel a pleasant drowsiness after a long work on the saurian. I’m picking up the folds of my woollen dress to slip it over my head – when I suddenly feel Charlotte placing her hands on my waist. Her touch is just as soft as the yellow glow of the candle.   
She helps me get out of the dress, slips down the chemise’s sleeve and kisses my shoulder slowly.   
***  
The coach is here already. First come the largest boxes, then the bags and the small bundles. Charlotte tarries, fidgets with the poke bonnet’s ribbons, hesitates. Her hands look pale and weak once again.   
I wrap myself up tighter in the shawl. It’s warm now but the sea wind doesn’t ever drop.   
It’s one minute before we bid farewell.   
***  
A quilt is laid down on the floor in two layers, but Charlotte is not afraid of catching a cold anymore. She is mindfully leafing through my diary. Catching the pages, tender and graceful.   
Suddenly, as if by magic, I start to see what she sees: the mysterious prints of the epochs long passed, the fine and somber curves of the bones. These are not rough and familiar sketches anymore but skillful drawings telling stories of different worlds… And here is a sad poem, tucked away among them. Then – an image of sleeping Charlotte, just two pages away.   
She is studying the diary, and her glance is full of wonder.   
My eyes are closing. I place my head on her shoulder and fall asleep.   
***  
None of us says a word. Charlotte is looking down at the paving stones. Some words about winter and snow are uttered and linger in the air.   
She doesn’t approach me; she doesn’t reach out to me.   
The door of the coach is opened. Seconds after that, there’s a glass between us.   
***   
I’m using tweezers, Charlotte holds a soft brush. We are sitting so close to each other. It’s quiet in the house – just a scratch of metal, a rustle, a stroke of hands.   
***   
Everything starts to move in an unstoppable, irreversible fashion. The horse moves its ears, makes a step, another one. The coachman swooshes their whip. The glance from behind the glass is timid but full of yearning.   
The coach departs.   
***   
Her dirty fingers as we try to unearth a large stone. Mud under her nails. Her ring finger with no ring.   
***   
Why didn’t she stay?  
***   
The stone stirs, we put the knives aside and sway it.   
***   
Because we’re not children anymore…   
***   
Her laughter.   
***   
Did she mean to stay?  
***  
She tucks her hair behind her ear with a soiled hand.   
***  
Who was she?  
***   
We push the stone again and again; my fingers suddenly find hers.   
***   
Was there anything during these weeks?  
***   
The sea rustles.   
***   
No, there wasn’t anything…   
The black coach goes farther–passes from sight behind another one–reappears–turns at the end of the lane. And then it is gone.   
It’s some other carriage that comes to a halt by a shop. It’s some other woman who exits her house with a basket in her hands.   
I rearrange my shawl, look around myself with some different eyes and I don’t know if I should ask the sea wind to give me back what was mine once.   
Was it?   
It’s a different person who returns to my house.


End file.
